Tag Archives: P. H. Coleman

Balloon Seller (Marchande de Ballons)

Though black and white, she stands midnight blue. A perfect vertical bow on her sateen apron cinches her waist. Thin latex worlds, being what they are, must be sold with gravity, thus, a pointed-toe pose. Her pride is reflected in … Continue reading

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Take 42: the color

You remember the time that we really met. Our avatars, children attached, sort of free, in that movie lobby? I had to wait until now for the feature. Jupiter’s spun nearly twice around the sun. Turn. Draw the space-black curtains … Continue reading

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Ars Omnia

A photograph is the before, during, and after. It is a movie that can be different every time it is seen. A poem is like that – sometimes a photograph, sometimes a movie, sometimes everything. P. H. Coleman graduated a … Continue reading

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Tomorrow, blood-orange dawn

Six Jerseys browse across a hillside, rippling dark fawn in August sun, working the negative space, grazing slowly against the lea’s fresh green. For them each bite’s a bit of news – alfalfa mixed with orchardgrass or meadow brome or … Continue reading

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Cosmo Park

Cold finch on a branch in the empty park hears only snow in the west. Sun slaps the flat plains so hard yet the dry grass sits still. Gray wool clouds enwrap the ground with indecisive mix. Sparrows like fat … Continue reading

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Buy Local

Observe – a moon like a flashlight spilling across the kitchen, running over a faded checker-block floor one moment before dawn. The livestock still dreams. A half- awake cat, night full, curls up, indifferent to the shades that play to … Continue reading

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Sonnetto 1

Why does the robin Sing in this early darkness? Can she see you here? Pandiculating, I stretch hands and arms awake And encircle you. From your side of bed I hear images. I write All I can recall. Dawn is … Continue reading

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Winnowing

A fat black nose, followed by my hound, snuffles through a color guard of windrows. Perfumed with late cold rain, wormless dirt, early autumn dark, the piles of leaves seem like daily journals, crumpled and cast aside by pin oaks … Continue reading

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